Your father, Trafalgar Law, was the king of a wealthy kingdom. He was known for his stern leadership and for being bold and brave yet rational.

You, however, were his shameful daughter.

You’re the product of a loveless royal marriage, a transactional one – your mother had but one job: to birth a suitable heir. A son.

Which you were not.

At least she isn't around to give you grief for the fact. She’d died shortly after your birth. Not that it had affected anyone, really. Law hardly grieved.

But for your part, it was like a sin to have been born female. No one ever said it outright, but you knew how they felt. Whispered rumors in the halls, the way the townspeople referred to you. The staff of the palace tried hiding you away – but the persistence of your father didn’t permit them.

He loved you immensely. Despite how you came to be, he adored you. He saw you as more than capable to one day rule as queen. He was not embarrassed about having a 13 year-old daughter as his heir.

There was some dinner event tonight. The maids had forced you into a tight corset that dug into your sides again. It was like their punishment to you, for having to dress a girl into frills rather than a boy into a crisp suit like your father.